When The Wolf Bites
by KatyJane75
Summary: A collection of holiday one-shots, including an alternative "how C & A first met."
1. Oktoberfest

**When The Wolf Bites - A Halloween One-Shot**

 **^v-v^**

 _ **Halloween Night 2018- The Wenatchee Valley**_

Heading back to Seattle after two days of meetings in Spokane, I make a last-minute decision to take the scenic route home. At Ellensburg, I exit off of I-90 onto Highway 2, the North Cascades Highway. I love how my R8 handles the tight curves and switchbacks of the narrow mountain byway.

For the first hour, the highway winds through the dry landscape of Eastern Washington. The scrub trees and scablands are a stark contrast to the green lushness west of the mountains.

In my short time at college, I took a geology course with a guy from Ellensburg. Partway through the lecture on the moraines of Eastern Washington, he leans over and says, "I never realized I was growing up in a desert!" It may not have the sands and pipe cactuses of Arizona, but yeah... _it's a fucking desert._

Finally, as I approach Leavenworth, I notice that the green is starting to creep in on the brown. I can see the vast Wenatchee National Forest and the Cascades rising up behind the small town.

Leavenworth is a classic tourist trap - a 'Bavarian' town tucked in along this ribbon of Washington highway. I don't normally give it a second look, but this evening, bright banners stretched above the street read "Oktoberfest" and "Happy Halloween." And one that calls my name in bright red script… "Microbrews."

On closer inspection, I see witches and vampires walking along the wooden sidewalks. I normally hate this kind of shit, but every one of those fuckers is carrying a plastic beer stein.

After being parched for the last two days in Spokane, I could practically feel a cold microbrew sliding down my throat. Against my better judgement, I start to look for a parking spot along the dusty shoulder. Grimacing as I walk away from my $180,000 car - praying that it doesn't get sideswiped by a tipsy bastard heading out of town - I hike the short distance back to the festival.

I've shed my suit coat and tie, but I still feel a bit out of place in my gray dress pants, white dress shirt, and expensive Italian dress shoes. I roll up my sleeves and slide on a pair of Ray-Bans, doing my best to blend in. This is about as dressed up for Halloween as I get.

I'm pretty far out from Seattle, but there are still plenty of people here who could recognize me. Plenty who would love to snap a selfie while clanking beer steins with Christian Grey. I don't typically travel without security, but I sent them home via I-90 in the SUV, wanting to travel alone in my R8.

I adjust my Ray-Bans and tuck my chin, one hand over my mouth, as I get in line for an $18 microbrew in a red plastic stein. Once one of these fuckers recognizes me, there will be a crowd and I'll never get out of here. I just want to sip my beer and then be on my way.

I hand the server $40 and tell her to keep the change. Maybe she can buy a new corset as her tits are spilling out of the one she's wearing. I am all for a good set of tits, but they better be for my eyes only, not paraded around at _Oktoberfest_.

I hear music coming from the town square, and I figure it's a good a spot as any to nurse my beer. The microbrew is sharp and ice cold as it hits my throat. It was worth the stop and the hassle... as long as nothing happens to my car.

I find a spot in the shade underneath a small fir tree and listen to the band. They're not bad... mostly brass, but they have a handful of strings mixed in, and it's not the annoying 'oompa-oompa' music that is so common at these types of events.

My eyes slide over the musicians, and they look like mostly college students, probably hired for the festival. They're all dressed in black, but I can see some random Halloween accessories… a couple of witch hats, some cat ears. And then my eyes come to rest on one of the cellists. She's sitting at the end, closest to me, and she's complete and utter perfection. Her long, chestnut hair is braided and thrown over one slim shoulder. The skin that I can see - her face, neck, and hands - is pale, but her cheeks are rosy. A perfect nose, a little pointed chin, and dark eyelashes complete the vision.

Maybe it's because her hair is braided and her eyes are downcast as she plays, but my mind is picturing her in my playroom. This time her hands would be in her lap, palms up. And her long black dress would be replaced with black, _Agent Provocateur_ lace and thigh-highs. She's exactly my type... _the perfect submissive_.

My dick twitches in envy as her small, nimble hands slide up and down the neck of her cello. She's concentrating completely, a little 'v' between her eyebrows as she frowns. As the song rises to its finale, she sticks just the tip of her tongue out through her plump lips... _Fuck._

The group stands and bows, and the announcer goes on about them being a collection of musicians from area colleges, mostly in the Wenatchee Valley. Then they start to pack up and move away, making room for 'The Bavarian Oompah Band.' These musicians are all portly and red-faced, wearing polyester lederhosen. This is my cue to head out.

My cellist… _my cellist?_ walks right by me on her way out of the town square. She's almost past me, to safety, when I catch a whiff of apples. And then I'm speaking aloud before I can stop myself.

"You guys sounded great," I begin lamely. "Um, can I buy you a beer?"

She stops and considers me for a moment, her eyes traveling all the way down to my Italian leather shoes, then back up to the red plastic stein in my hand. "Those beers are like eighteen dollars," she says.

 _Is she mocking me? Thinking how stupid I am to spend that kind of money on a beer?_ But then one corner of her mouth quirks up a little. She's joking, teasing me.

I raise my Ray-Bans and let my eyes connect with hers, gray to bottomless blue. "I'm… _Chris_ , by the way, and you are?"

"My friends call me Cricket." And she raises one eyebrow while her hands make the motion of drawing a bow across strings. I notice that she's wearing small, dangly, black spider earrings. Finally she shrugs, "Sure. You can buy me a beer." _Sure, go ahead and waste your money on me if your want. Sucker._

It's a little fun being incognito for one night. Most women wouldn't bat an eyelash at spending $1800 of my money. I turn back toward the beer and food stands and she falls in step beside me.

"Can I buy you dinner, then?" She asks. "I know where they sell the best shish ke-dogs."

I stop in my tracks. "What, may I ask, is a _shish ke-dog_?" I am afraid of her answer, knowing that it will involve a food truck and a deep fryer.

"Well..." she says dramatically, "it's a corn dog, but the wiener is cut into sections. And there is a cube of cheese between each section. So after they bread it and deep-fry it, there is a bite of melted cheese in between each bite of wiener." She looks up at me and smirks, looking like she's proud of using the word 'wiener' in a sentence. _Twice._

I am usually disciplined in my food choices, choosing high-protein and high-fiber foods almost exclusively. Eggs, chicken, beef, fish, vegetables... But now my mouth is watering with the thought of this acclaimed _shish ke-dog_.

She's waiting for my answer so I shrug and say, "Sure."

She stops in front of a brick building. "Um, this is where we're sleeping? I'll just be a minute... I want to drop off my cello and grab my purse?"

I nod and watch as she scurries up the concrete steps and through the glass doors. Half of me is afraid that she'll slip through a back door and disappear. _The other half of me is afraid that she won't._

As promised, she appears just a few minutes later without her cello and with a small cross-body purse. She has a jean jacket over one arm, and she's still wearing those spider earrings. _Good._

"So what's first, food or drink?" I ask.

"Food," she says emphatically, and leads me across the street and down a block to a food truck called 'Corndoggies.' She asks for two shish ke-dogs and one order of spicy curly fries.

The shish ke-dogs are like a foot long, and - seriously - put my wiener to shame. I wince a little when she bites the tip right off of hers, then moans in ecstasy.

I take a tentative bite, then another. The thing is fresh out of the fryer and burning hot, but I just can't stop eating it... _It's delicious!_ I realize in that moment that I have been completely and totally depriving myself of one of life's pleasures... _food sold off trucks and on sticks. Fair food._

"Well?" She asks.

"Delicious," I manage to mumble around a mouthful of scalding, wonderful, melted cheese. "It's the most amazing thing I have ever eaten."

We wander back up the street and stand in line for the overpriced beer. Once we each have a red plastic stein in hand, we find a picnic table near the town square. We're just far enough from the Oompa band to allow for conversation.

She offers me some of the spicy curly fries and, of course, they are heavenly as well. "You seem to be an expert at choosing fair food," I say. "Surely you don't eat like this all the time?" Her body is trim, in fact I'd go as far as to say she's a little underweight, so surely not.

"No, but I figure if you're going to indulge, go for the good stuff. The funnel cakes, for example? And the deep-fried Twinkies? They don't do it for me."

I nod. She does have a point. After all, I have indulged in two large steins of beer tonight. I don't want to even count the calories, never mind the carbs. But, they don't stop me from enjoying a good microbrew a few times a week.

"So you're a student?" I ask. "Music major?"

She shakes her head. "Secondary education, for both English and music."

"A teacher... a very noble profession," I say.

She nods, taking another curly fry and chewing thoughtfully. "So what do you do?"

 _What do I do?_ I don't know the last time someone asked me that. _What do I do? I'm freaking Christian Grey! That's what I do._

"I'm in business... um, mostly mergers and acquisitions?"

She frowns. "So you, like, buy companies?"

"Yes, basically... and only when there's a good reason. Like if they are going to go under, and if there's profit to be made once we turn them around."

"Or if you sell them for pieces. Do people lose their jobs?"

"Sometimes," I say. "Generally we try to avoid that as much as possible."

She nods, then turns her attention back to her dinner. I watch her pale throat move as she takes a long drink of her beer. Her milky white skin is exquisite, practically glowing in the evening light.

We finish our meals, such as they are, in companionable silence. Then she fumbles in her purse, producing a brightly-wrapped sucker.

"Cherry Blo-Pop?" She asks. "They're my second-favorite treat on a stick."

"Sure," I say. This girl is just full of surprises. _I'd like to treat her to my favorite kind of stick._

I hold out my hand, but she scowls and pulls the sucker back toward her chest. "This is mine," she says with a scowl. "But I'll share."

I chuckle at her expression as she removes the wrapper, exposing the red globe of candy underneath. She is all business, intent on her task.

She puts the whole sucker in her mouth, and I watch as her cheeks are pulled in by the suction. _Oh fuck me. Please._

She removes it with an audible - pop! - and holds it out to me.

Holding my eyes on hers, I put the sucker in my mouth. It tastes of sweet, a little sour, and _her_.

 **^v-v^**

I check my phone for the time. 4:47 AM. If I have any hope of making my 8:00 breakfast meeting, I need to get going. Sharing the Blo-Pop led to sharing the gum at the center, which led to kissing… which led to...

I lean down and kiss the brown-haired goddess sleeping next to me softly behind the ear.

She stirs and then opens her eyes, which are heavy with sleep.

"I need to get going... I'm sorry," I say softly, and then I slide out of the narrow bed, feeling the cold linoleum under my feet.

She sits up and watches me dress, the sheet of her narrow bed pulled up around her breasts. She's gorgeous… looking shy and sated with tendrils of hair escaping her braid.

"I don't even know your name," I say, feeling shame wash over me. I fucked this sweet, young, beautiful girl. Twice. And I'm about to leave her sitting naked in her bed. _And I don't even know her name._

She looks as if she's weighing her options, and then her eyes meet mine. "Let's just leave it… you know, as a little Halloween treat?"

I finish dressing, deep in thought. _Do I tell her my real name? Ask for her number?_ But I feel like this night was more of a dream than reality. A little trick-or-treat fantasy. And she will never fit into my reality. _What am I going to do with a college girl from the Wenatchee Valley?_

As if it's an omen, I hear a wolf howl in the distance. A lone wolf… one who's not fit for society.

I lean over and kiss her lips, allowing myself to run my fingers along her jaw, to touch her one last time. "You okay?" I ask.

She nods and looks down.

"They call me _The Wolf_ ," I joke and give her one of my signature panty-dropping smiles as I turn toward the door. I give a soft howl as I exit, and when I turn back and give her one last look, she's returning my smile.

I hike the quarter mile or so up the now-empty highway to my car, praying under my breath that it survived the night.

My baby is sitting all alone, but appears unscathed. Breathing a sigh of relief, I slip behind the wheel and rev the engine. It appears that I will make a clean getaway... _no strings attached._

I plug my phone into the charger, seeing that Taylor replied at some point after I checked in last night.

 _Very good, Sir._ _See you at Escala._

I send a quick message stating that I am en route, and pull out onto the North Cascades Highway toward home.

And as I drive, I see sky blue eyes... rosy cheeks on pale skin... waves of chestnut hair. And it wasn't just her looks. She was funny, intelligent, and adorably clumsy. So sweet. Innocent.

And I fucked her. Hard. A one night stand, using both of the condoms that I had in my wallet. The first was frantic, as soon as we burst into her tiny room, up against the door. The second was on the narrow bed, missionary style, with her long legs spread wide open for me.

And then we slept. I slept with her, spooned with her, her soft backside curled against mine.

I shake my head and turn my attention back to the road, which is climbing in earnest now, up toward the pass.

 **^v-v^**

 _ **Graduation Day 2019 - WSU**_

I am bored out of my mind. As a major contributor to this university's agricultural program, I agreed to give the keynote speech and confer degrees at graduation. Never wanting to miss a chance to educate young people about world hunger and - giving in to my ever-persistent PR department - agreed.

Speaking of persistent, the tenacious Kate Kavanagh gave a great speech. She interviewed me for the school paper just last month, and the poor thing coughed and sniffled her way through her list of questions. She seems to be in good health today, her voice clear and her green eyes bright.

We move from the R's to the S's as the students file across the stage in a never-ending line of black and crimson.

 _Megan Soliah… Anastasia Steele…_

Anastasia approaches me, eyes down, to collect her diploma. She takes the folder in one hand and reaches out to shake my hand with the other. As soon as our hands touch, I feel a tingle of electricity and I maintain my grasp on her hand. I will her eyes up to meet mine… _Look at me, Anastasia._

After a heartbeat, she looks up at me and our eyes connect once again… blue to gray. _My Cricket._

"Anastasia."

"Christian."

 **^v-v^**

After some negotiating, I have secured a date with one _Anastasia Steele_ , new graduate. She had lunch plans with her father, but she's mine for dinner.

She slides into my R8 and runs a hand over the buttery leather interior. "Nice car," she says. "Does she have a name?"

"No," I say. _But you can name her anything you want._ "Do your friends really call you Cricket?"

She snorts. _She snorted! And it's the most adorable thing I have ever heard._ "No."

As we pull into traffic, the song 'The Wolf' by The Spencer Lee Band begins to play.

 _I wanna jack it, smack it_

 _You know the shit that turns you on?_

 _I wanna lick it, kiss it_

 _I'll give you everything you want_

 _Ooh, howling out your name_

 _Ooh, red like champagne_

 _Ooh, you're gonna feel the vibes_

 _When the wolf comes out tonight_

We laugh, and I reach over and put my hand on her knee as we head toward Portland and The Heathman Hotel. I think it's another sign from my friend, The Wolf. Time to follow my instincts, and - with any luck - take another bite.


	2. Pizza for Thanksgiving

**Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! 'When the Wolf Bites' was intended to be a one-shot story, an alternate "how C & A met" beginning that leads into the rest of the story as written by EL James. However, I thought it would be fun to add another 'holiday chapter' for their first Thanksgiving as the Greys.**

 **I asked some friends for ideas, and Carol222 and Nani Leonardo asked for a story where the men end up cooking the feast. So here the women are intoxicated, putting the men in charge. But following the timeline of 'the books,' we can't have a drunk Ana!**

 **Another shout out to my friend and writer, Swimming the Same Deep Waters, for pre-reading and giving me some of the dialogue. If you haven't read her story, 'And So I Ran' yet, you should definitely check it out!**

 **So here it is. Credit for these characters, as always, goes to EL James.**

 **Pizza for Thanksgiving**

 **xoxox**

"Baby, are you feeling any better?" I ask, trying to rouse my sleeping wife. "You said something about wanting to get the turkey in the oven by 8:00? It's 7:30 now."

"Mmmm... no turkey" is the only response that I get from my semi-comatose wife, who has been up puking for the past two hours. Baby Grey is not playing nice this morning, but at least it's the last day we have to keep our little turkey under wraps. My mother and father know, and so does Ray, but we have plans to tell everyone else over dinner. _Over the traditional Thanksgiving feast that my wife is insisting on preparing._

We're hosting 'the big meal' at our new house on the Sound at _precisely_ 4:00 this afternoon, and the chef is out of commission.

I walk downstairs, open the fridge to find some orange juice, and nearly jump out of my skin at the sight of our twenty-five-pound Tom Turkey. He's dominating the center shelf, in his goose-pimply (turkey-pimply?) glory.

"Excuse me," I say, as I reach around him. _A little late for apologies isn't it, old bird?_

Okay, Grey, get a grip... you are standing in the kitchen, in your boxer briefs, talking to a bird. Time to talk to someone who can actually help.

Normally, even on a holiday, I wouldn't hesitate to call in the first person in my arsenal of backups... _Gail_. But Ana, in her giving and generous spirit, convinced me to fly her, Taylor and Sophie to Disneyland for the long weekend. _Fantastic. They're at the happiest place on Earth, and I'm... yeah, I know._

So, I do what any grown man would do. I put on my big boy pants and call my mom.

"Chriss-tian!" she chirps into the phone. Her voice sounds slurred and... odd.

"Mom? I'm sorry to call you so early. I thought you might still be asleep?"

"Oh NO, Mia and Grandma T and I are just about to make PIES!"

 _Grandma T?_ The horror of the situation is starting to creep in. My mother, Grace Grey, distinguished physician, is tipsy. No, I think she's past tipsy. My mother is drunk. "Mom, are you... drunk?" I practically have to choke out the last word.

"Mia's been making us mi-Mo-sas. And they have JUICE in them. So they're FINE for breakfast."

"Mom? Can you put Dad on the phone?"

There's a lot of shuffling, and then my mother screeches "CAAAAA-RR-EEEY, it's our SON! On the PHONE! Not Lelliot... the other one!"

"Christian? Good morning, son. Happy Thanksgiving."

My father, at least, sounds like himself... a little formal, no doubt already in his button-down and khakis, but - thank God - sober.

"Dad? What's going on there?"

"Um, your grandmother got everyone up at six to make pies. She was going to show your mother and Mia how to make her famous pie crusts..."

"And..."

"Mia started making mimosas, which are apparently her own special recipe... with, um, a shot of vodka in each one."

"And... all three of them?" _Surely not my sweet, seventy-five-year-old grandmother..._

"Yes. Last thing I heard from the kitchen from - um, _Grandma T_ \- was something along the lines of - and I quote - 'screw the pies and line 'em up.'"

"Here's the thing, Dad. Ana's not feeling well, and I don't think she's up to cooking today. I was hoping that mom and grandma could..."

There's a pause while my father thinks, most likely trying to estimate the blood-alcohol content of the three women. "Son, we have your back. I will make some strong coffee, get everyone in the car, and head your way. We'll be there within the hour."

 _An hour... Surely with some fresh air, some coffee, and they'll be good as new, right?_

I check the time. 7:55. There's no way that turkey is going to be in the oven on time. Maybe a 5:30 dinner... Yes, 5:30 will be fine. _No problem._

I go and take a shower and put on some actual big boy pants and a cranberry polo... fitting, right? Ana has been slowly but surely adding some color to my wardrobe. I have a whole line-up of food-colored clothing now. _Pumpkin, celery, cinnamon…_ I drew the line at melon. No melon.

I check on said wife, and she's passed out like a starfish on the bed, limbs splayed out. She's added color to more than my wardrobe, that's for sure. I never thought that stopping for that microbrew would change my life forever… and for the better.

We had quite the stretch between our first and second dates, but we've more than made up for it in the six months since her graduation day. Reunited in May, engaged in June, married in July, and pregnant in August.

Add in a major tantrum (on my part) to the news of baby Grey, the fact that she nearly died at the hands of that Hyde fucker, and it's been quite the roller-coaster. And I love every inch of her gorgeous, fair-food loving, cello-playing self.

She moans softly in her sleep, and shifts, one hand coming to rest on her belly. She has the start of the cutest little bump, and it's a good thing we're telling everyone today. It won't take the inquisitive, eagle-eyed, story-sniffing Kate Kavanagh too much longer to figure it out.

I take one last look at my bride before shutting the door softly behind me, letting sleeping beauty sleep. I head down to meet my reinforcements before they can ring the doorbell and disturb Ana.

I needn't have worried… they've already let themselves in. _Who needs doorbells - or even doors - when you're family?_ I hear a loud 'pop' and the sound of laughter coming from the direction of our living room. I walk in to see Mia removing the cork from what appears to be the bottle of $200 Sancerre - over my $15,000 area rug - that I had in the refrigerator… for after we tell them about the baby. But, visions of that heartwarming scene go right out the window when I see them pass the bottle around. I guess they're past needing champagne flutes at this point.

I hear the front door open and close, and my father and grandfather appear, followed by Elliot and Kate. "Dad, what happened to sobering them up?"

He just shakes his head, grimacing. "Your grandmother snuck the bottle of vodka in her purse and, apparently, they continued the party all the way up here. I'm sorry, son."

 _Okay… don't panic, Grey. Do. Not. Panic._ Plan A: Ana. _Not happening._ Plan B: Gail. _Not happening._ Plan C: My mother and grandmother. _Not happening._ Plan - what am I on? - D. Plan D… I eye Kavanagh, who's at least a female… _No, Ana said she's hopeless in the kitchen. The queen of take-out._ She's a lost cause anyway, as she's now snuck around me and is following the sound of laughter to the living room.

"Men," I say, squaring my shoulders. "The women in this family are all either incapacitated, intoxicated, or incapable of preparing this year's feast. We're down to Plan E: _Emergency._ It's up to us. Follow me."

I must have sounded more confident than I felt because they actually do follow me into the kitchen. Our kitchen here at the big house has a large, central island and every top-of-the-line appliance and kitchen trinket imaginable. It is also fully stocked with all the staples and the makings for a Thanksgiving feast. _Some assembly required…_

I open the refrigerator, reach in, and extract Tom from his throne, setting him on the island.

"Okay, so we have the bird. We need to stuff it, right?" The other men just nod. "So what's in stuffing?"

"We don't need a recipe… it's right here," says Elliott, holding up a bag of 'Pepperidge Farm Sage & Onion Stuffing Cubes.'

Okay… I glance at the directions quickly and mix in the chicken broth, deciding to skip the celery altogether. _No one's got time for celery today._

"Someone else's turn," I say, raising my eyebrows and looking pointedly at Elliot. "And I think you're just the man for the job."

"Heck yeah, I'll stuff this old bird!" Elliot laughs, rolling up his sleeves. Soon, Elliot is shoulder-deep in the turkey, and I turn my attention to other tasks.

"Who wants to make the cranberry salad?" Grandpa volunteers and I send him on his way, confident that his two master's degrees in business and accounting will serve him well.

"Dad, what else do we need for a Thanksgiving dinner?" I ask.

My father scratches his head, clearly out of his element here. We might have never prepared Thanksgiving dinner, but we've eaten our share of them. _Think… think…_

"Sweet potatoes!" my father calls out, clapping his hands together excitedly. That's the spirit, old man. "You know… with the little marshmallows!"

"Sweet potatoes… YES!" I open the pantry door and, thank goodness, there is a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes just waiting to be turned into a traditional Thanksgiving dish.

Deciding to make certain that we're doing this right, I take the bag into the living room, holding it up. "Are sweet potatoes sweet because you put sugar in them?" I check, hearing the panic in my own voice. It's nearly 10:30 already. At this point, we won't be eating before midnight.

"Sweet like you, sugar!" my grandma calls out. "Boil 'em up, pour in the sugar!" I can't tell if she's joking or not, so I take that as a 'yes' and head back into the kitchen.

I roll up the sleeves of my no-longer crisp white shirt and manage to find two peelers in the drawer next to the sink. "Dad, can you start peeling these?" I pull out my phone. "I'm going to look up a recipe for sweet potatoes on the Internet."

"Son, we don't need the Internet to peel potatoes. Put your phone down and get in here." And so I spend the next thirty minutes peeling potatoes with my father. I only nick myself half a dozen times. It's fine, because we're going to boil these, right? _No sweat._

"Elliot, how's the turkey coming over there?" It's now 11:05. _Shit._

"And… finished!" he calls out, stuffing what appears to be a whole stalk of celery into Tom's butt. He's recreated a sort of turkey tail with a fan of celery stalks. "Gourmet, right?"

"It actually doesn't look half bad," I say. "Okay. So, if the turkey was supposed to go in at eight and it's now eleven… What if we just turn the temperature up?"

"Well, I know frozen pizzas cook at 425 degrees, and your oven goes up to… 500. That's not too much difference. I say we go for it," says Elliot, then he points to the little thingy on Tom's shoulder, "AND I saw on a commercial that you're supposed to let it cook until the little button pops out." _Thank goodness Elliot has some cooking experience!_

We crank the larger of our two fancy wall ovens up to 500 degrees and slide old Tom in. I take a minute to call Ray, who should be leaving his home in Montesano soon. I give him a brief rundown of what's going on and ask him to pick up a couple of pumpkin pies on the way. _If there are any left to be had between Montesano and here._

Dad is busy chopping up the potatoes and putting them in a big pot. I would have saved the hassle and left 'em whole… it seems like extra work since we're mashing them anyway. But, he looks like he's got in under control, so I leave him to it.

I realize that I haven't heard cackling coming from the living room in a little while, so I go to check on the women. They are all passed out on my couch, and I see that my wife wandered out and joined them at some point. She, Mia and Kate are sleeping in a pile - like puppies - at one end of the couch.

I walk back into the kitchen, and my father is emptying half a bag of sugar into the boiling potatoes. "Are you sure it's not supposed to be brown sugar, Dad?" I ask. "I mean, aren't sweet potatoes more that brown-ish color?" My father just shakes his head, says he's got it under control, and to let him concentrate. _Fine._

I go to check on Elliot, who's watching old Tom through the window on the oven. He looks fascinated. I look over his shoulder, and the celery tail is going up in flames, stalk by stalk. It's kind of pretty in a horrifying sort of way.

Grandpa seems to be in a much better mood than my father. He's wearing one of Gail's aprons and singing to himself as he makes the cranberry salad. It appears to consist of chopped cranberries, iceberg lettuce, and ranch dressing. I don't know too much about making cranberry salad either, so I leave him to it.

My dad is now mashing the sweet potatoes and humming to himself, adding handfuls of mini-marshmallows as he stirs. Elliot is still staring through the oven door at his flaming turkey tail. It would almost be the perfect domestic scene if it didn't look like a bomb went off in here.

I help my dad scoop the sweet potato and marshmallow mixture into a baking pan, and we put in the second oven. We decide that it probably needs about half what the turkey does, so we set the temperature to 250 degrees.

"Men, I think we're all set here. We just need to give Old Tom and dad's sweet potatoes some time to cook." I say. "Let's put the cranberry salad in the fridge, grab some beers, and wait for the button to pop."

Leaving the women to the living room, we head downstairs to my man cave. I have a full bar, a pool table, and darts all set up down here, as well as four of the huge, gorgeous, black and white photos that Jose took of Ana. I wanted to hang them in the living room, but she said NO. I got to choose the decor for down here and for my office, so they are both fifty shades of gray and _Ana._

We're on our fourth round of darts and our third beers when it happens. The smoke alarm goes off. And, of course, our house is equipped with the latest safety equipment, so when I say 'smoke alarm' I mean it's like a four-alarm fire. The house entire house is filled with the loudest, piercing beeping that you can imagine, and the overhead lights turn to red and start to flash.

We all race to the kitchen, the women appearing in the doorway at the other side. There doesn't appear to be an actual fire, but there is black smoke pouring out of Tom's oven.

"Noooooo….," Elliot yells and flings open the oven door. The black smoke fills the room, and I see Ana run over and open the window above the sink, coughing and holding her hand over her mouth.

The sight of my wife taking charge breaks me out of my stupor, and I order everyone out the front door, pausing to turn off the ovens on the way. After I slam the door on the smoky, blaring mess that is my home, I can hear sirens in the distance, and remember that our fire alarm will alert the authorities if it's not turned off within the first minute. I'm not even sure how to turn it off, and I curse myself once again for sending Gail and Taylor away.

Instead, I sigh in resignation and pull out my phone, and type in my code to open the front gates. Not one, but two, bright red fire trucks pull into our circular driveway, followed by a fire chief's truck and Ray's truck. _Fabulous._

The chief approaches me, and I tell him that there's no fire, just a small mishap with the turkey. Then I ask him if he knows how to turn our over-priced, state-of-the-art fire alarm. _It doesn't look like I will be eating turkey this year, but crow is definitely on the menu._

The chief is a burly man, his muscles bulging out of his navy, Woodway FD polo shirt. He looks us all over, his eyes settling on my grandfather, who is still wearing Gail's apron.

"So no fire here? You men were cooking the meal?"

I nod. And I thought we were doing a fine job of it… _up until the whole fire alarm thing anyway._

He starts to smile and then to laugh, then steps around us and opens the front door. I watch him open the alarm panel and insert a key that's on a large ring at his belt. And then there's silence… _Ahhhh._

He sends a couple of firemen in to check things out, then comes back out and looks us over again, this time focusing on the bleary-eyed women in my family. Grandma looks a little tipsy still… she's swaying slightly from side-to-side.

"Everyone all right? Anyone in need of medical attention?" he asks.

"I don't think so." I reach over and pull Ana to my side. "Although my wife is pregnant, and I think she may have inhaled a little smoke."

"As long as the smoke was from burning food, and not caustic, she should be fine. Are you breathing alright, ma'am?" he asks.

Ana nods, and I can tell she's suppressing a laugh. "Fine, thank you. I don't think I really inhaled much."

He goes to join the inspection in the house, and I think we're in the clear until I hear Kavanagh say, "Oh. My. God." _Whoops! I forgot that everyone was still standing right here. Looks like I'm in for another helping of crow._

Ana and I turn around and, unfortunately, Kavanagh is the only one who looks surprised... _and_ _pissed_. Everyone else looks a little sheepish, and not one of them wants to make eye contact. "You all know," I say, and it's not a question.

My father finally speaks up first, and says that he let the news slip to Elliot a few days ago. And then my mother says that she might have mentioned something to Mia somewhere around her fourth mimosa. Kate's face is just getting redder and redder, and I think if _she_ had a button like Tom, it just might pop.

"Come on, Kate, it was bound to happen," says Elliot. "It's not like they go to the boathouse _every_ _time_ at Mom and Dad's for the view is it?!"

"Shut up, Elliot," I growl.

"Fine. Have it your way, Chrissy. But next time I'm not saying anything when you come back with your shirt on inside out!"

"Well you seem to like to 'show Kate your rowing trophies' and awful lot, Elliot."

"Elliot, dear – You didn't row," slurs Grace in amusement.

"Fine, Mom. Kate likes to look at _Christian's_ rowing trophies," Elliot says, blushing under Kate's mortified stare.

I'm not sure if 'pissed' Kate or 'mortified' Kate is worse. _And I really, really hope everyone is still too drunk to remember this conversation tomorrow._

It turns out that there's something worse than pissed or mortified Kate. It's 'upset' Kate, and her lip is trembling as she pulls Ana in for a hug. "I'm sorry... here we are fighting and my _best friend_ is going to have a baby! I can't believe it," she says, pulling back. I can see they're _both_ crying now.

Thank goodness the chief and the other firemen come back out and interrupt the torrent of hormones. "It's all clear... but I don't think you're going to be eating turkey for dinner," the chief says. _No worries... I'm full from all the crow._

After thanking the firemen profusely, giving them a box of steaks and a case of microbrews, plus promising to sponsor their annual Firemen's Ball, we wave them off.

"Well Annie," says Ray, "it's always an adventure with you kids, isn't it?" My wife looks up from where she and Kate and Mia are huddled in squealing, hugging, chattering mass of females and just smiles. _Yes, it's been quite the adventure so far._

"All right, everyone…" Kate announces a few minutes later. "You've all had your chances, and I'M in charge of this Thanksgiving dinner now. I'm ordering pizzas. I wonder if they have any with turkey...?" she wonders aloud as we all go back into the house.

 **xoxox**

I wake up alone in bed and check the time - 2:15 AM. My wife is nowhere to be found. Not in the bathroom… I make my way downstairs, finding her in the kitchen, perched on the island with a slice of Hawaiian pizza in one hand, and a spoon in the other. In between her slender legs is a container of white goo.

"What are you doing in here? Everything all right?" I ask.

"Mmmm… I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. I slept so much yesterday, and I was hungry. What is this anyway? It's delicious."

"I think those are my father's sweet potatoes," I laugh and lean in to kiss her, resting my hand on top of our little turkey. She tastes of potatoes and marshmallows… sweet and perfect.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Grey."

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Grey."

 **xoxoxo**


End file.
